


Happy Monday (I don't need an official day to tell you how I feel)

by veronamay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was starting to hate the colour red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Monday (I don't need an official day to tell you how I feel)

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Valentine's Day' prompt on my sadly neglected [schmoop_bingo](http://schmoop-bingo.livejournal.com) table. Not beta'd or Britpicked. If something leaps out at you, by all means let me know. Further (spoilery) notes follow at the end.

_8 February_

John Watson was starting to hate the colour red.

The fairy lights, tinsel and garlands had barely disappeared from Oxford Street after Epiphany when they were replaced by displays of heart-shaped novelties and boxes of chocolates in eye-watering shades from baby pink to crimson, with smug cherubs looking on. (The cherubs often bore a disturbing resemblance to Mycroft, unless that was just John's (wholly justified, thank you very much) paranoia at play.) Everywhere he looked there were advertisements telling him to _pamper that special someone_ and _show your love for him or her_ , accompanied by some of the most useless and overpriced items he'd ever seen.

John had never been much for commercialised holidays, but he liked Valentine's Day. Ordinarily it wasn't a problem: he wasn't what anyone would call imaginative in his romantic pursuits, but he'd rarely gone wrong with a candlelit dinner and giving his partner his undivided attention, which coincided nicely with what was required on Valentine's Day. Hearts and flowers were pretty, but sincerity went a lot further in John's book.

The problem this year was simple: Sherlock. Sherlock, with his intensity and focus that demanded John's undivided attention round the clock; Sherlock, with his preference for a half-dozen upmarket restaurants within a ten-minute stroll of Baker Street, which meant candlelit dinners were hardly a rarity; Sherlock, with his total lack of regard for anything approaching sentimentality unless it caused a spike in crime rates. The man didn't even have a sweet tooth, for crying out loud. It was highly likely he'd never even considered Valentine’s Day in the context of himself and John.

It shouldn't be an issue—they didn't exactly need the opportunity to highlight their 'mutual regard' for each other (as Mycroft so delicately phrased it) what with the regular near-death experiences and the very energetic physical reaffirmation of their relationship that usually followed—but John still wanted to do something to mark the occasion. He wasn't an imaginative romantic, but he _was_ romantic, and the thought of letting Valentine's Day pass without doing anything to formally celebrate it just felt wrong.

As February wore on and inspiration failed to strike, however, John began to despair. Then he began to grow irritated at the non-stop barrage of demands assaulting him from all sides in the shopping districts ( _SPOIL THE ONE YOU LOVE! THE PERFECT GIFT FOR THE MAN WHO HAS EVERYTHING!)_. Forget the man who had everything; what did one buy for the man who didn't even _want_ anything, and would just buy or steal it for himself if he did?

The situation saw John sitting alone in the flat on the evening of February eighth, staring blindly at his laptop while he continued to rack his brains for something appropriate to the occasion that Sherlock might like. He'd been at this endeavour for a couple of hours, using the peace and quiet while Sherlock was at Bart's cajoling more body parts out of the mortuary staff. He'd be back soon enough, though, and John's list of potential gifts numbered something less than one. In fact, he might actually have entered negative figures during his search.

John scowled at the website he was currently visiting, which was decked out in too-sweet shades of pink and offered such gems of wisdom as 'where to have sex' and '500 lovemaking tips'. There were a couple of items on the site that Sherlock might find amusing—the hidden-message key chain, for example—but John was looking for something more. He didn't want to buy Sherlock a trinket; he wanted to give him something to _remember_. As it stood, he was faced with letting the day pass in the usual fashion and feeling like a clod for not finding a clever enough way for them to enjoy it.

Sherlock arrived home a few minutes later, kicking the sitting-room door shut with his heel and shrugging out of his coat in almost the same motion. John closed the violently pink tab and switched to his blog, although it was probably already too late. He caught a whiff of rain-scented air clinging to Sherlock as he moved across the room, flinging himself into his chair in a disconsolate sprawl.

"What, no new body parts today?"

"Molly wouldn't give me any. She almost shouted at me, actually." Sherlock crossed his arms. "Apparently, I take her for granted and I need to learn that Bart's mortuary isn't my personal repository."

"She does have a point," John said. "You can't keep borrowing fingers and eyeballs like library books."

"How else am I meant to obtain the necessary materials to conduct my experiments? Go out bodysnatching in the middle of the night like a Victorian medical student?" Sherlock slumped lower and scowled. "It's ridiculous."

"Not to Molly. It's her job you're risking, after all. I'm afraid I have to side with her on this one, love." John stood up and stretched, rotating his bad shoulder with a wince. "I'm making a cuppa, d'you want one?"

"Fine," Sherlock muttered. His face stayed dark, although he didn't flinch away when John dropped a kiss on his hair in passing. His next words followed John into the kitchen. "It's not like I dismember the bodies myself, you know!"

"No, but you would if they'd let you!" John called back. "And you're not supposed to have access to human remains at all, so count yourself lucky."

"Hmph," was all the response he got to that. Sherlock didn't belabour the point, so John counted it as a win and made the tea.

"What have you been doing all afternoon, then?" Sherlock said when John rejoined him in the sitting room.

John shrugged. "Nothing terribly interesting. Paid some bills, stared at my blog for a bit. Watched some telly." He watched Sherlock roll his eyes and poked his knee with his foot. "Shut up. Some of us appreciate a quiet day occasionally."

"I can sense your brain rotting from here," Sherlock informed him.

"What a charming visual." John sipped his tea and tried to think of a way to casually broach the subject of Valentine's Day. "What were you trying to get from Bart's this time, anyway?"

"A heart," Sherlock said. "I want to run some tests on human heart tissue versus _Sus scrofa_."

John stared at him for a long moment, speechless, until Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent query.

"A heart," John said at last. "You wanted Molly to give you a human heart to experiment on, five days before Valentine's Day?" Then the rest of Sherlock's words caught up to him. "To compare with the heart of a _pig_?"

"It is said to be the closest anatomical match, after other primates, of course. I couldn't source a chimpanzee heart for a proper comparison." Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean, Valentine's Day?"

"Valentine's Day is on Monday, Sherlock," John said in his most patient tone. "Not really the best time to go begging for hearts to experiment on. Which is probably why Molly was a bit short with you."

"I wasn't _begging_. And Valentine's Day is a ridiculous social custom," Sherlock argued. "Like every other overcommercialised mawkish holiday on the calendar."

"… right," John replied after a moment. "Okay. Well, not everyone sees it that way, so you might want to keep that in mind for the future."

He did his best to keep his voice even, but Sherlock's narrow-eyed gaze was already raking over his face, gathering information, reaching the embarrassingly correct conclusion. John felt his face heat in response to the scrutiny, but he didn't look away.

"Ah." Sherlock propped his chin on his hands, arguments about literal hearts apparently forgotten. "My apologies, John. I hadn't considered you might be in favour of observing the occasion."

"Obviously," John said dryly. "Look, it's fine. Forget about it. I was having a bastard of a time trying to find you a proper gift anyway."

He felt somewhat deflated, but he'd more or less expected Sherlock to react exactly this way. It saved him the headache of finding a gift, but he couldn't deny it was disappointing that Sherlock didn't want to make an effort just for one day.

"I do appreciate the sentiment," Sherlock went on. "I just don't like the hyperbole that generally goes along with it. And quite frankly, the idea that I should reserve that one day above all others to demonstrate my attachment to you is absurd. It should be perfectly evident every day that I can't manage without you. Or, more precisely, that I don't want to."

He said all of this in a matter-of-fact tone, as though it were an old and well-worn truth between them, when in fact John spent far too much time second-guessing his place in Sherlock's list of priorities. Some of this must have shown on his face, because in the next instant Sherlock was out of his chair and leaning down into John's space, gripping his wrists as he spoke his next words directly into John's ear.

"If I've been remiss in that respect," Sherlock breathed, "by all means let me remedy the situation immediately."

John mentally consigned his Valentine's Day frustrations to hell and back, and lifted his face for Sherlock's kiss.

 

* * *

 _9 February_

Sherlock was gone again the following day, leaving John a text that read, _At the Yard all morning. Will return to have lunch. In this scenario, 'lunch' = you._

Apparently, Sherlock was taking the whole 'appreciating the sentiment' idea to heart.

John recalled Sherlock's words from the previous night. They'd struck a chord in him, particularly the part about the hyperbole surrounding Valentine's Day. He vaguely recalled seeing some 'anti-Valentine' links during his Google searches; perhaps it might be worthwhile looking at the day from that aspect, rather than adhering to convention. John wondered for a moment whether he should just let the whole thing die an awkward, quiet death (especially given Sherlock's exquisite skill in demonstrating the depth of his affection at the drop of a hat), but something in him wouldn't let it go.

What the hell—he'd just do a bit more Googling and satisfy his curiosity, no harm done. He booted up his laptop and went to make tea.

 

* * *

Half an hour later, John had a mischievous grin, an express print order and a plan.

 

* * *

 _14 February_

"You're going to have to let me get up eventually," John mumbled. "I've got a shift starting at nine."

He was mumbling because Sherlock was draped over him like the world's most determined blanket, keeping John in bed. To be fair, John wasn't trying very hard to get up, hence the result of his words emerging into the dip of Sherlock's collarbone, which was right above John's lips. He pressed a kiss there for good measure, just because he could.

He was also mumbling because Sherlock had just treated him to possibly the best wake-up blowjob he'd ever had, and what was left of his brain was leaking slowly out of his ears. Sherlock had just enjoyed a bit of good old-fashioned frottage against John's hip in return, and John still had a double handful of his backside, holding him close. Which wasn't doing much for his position on the issue of getting up, but John never claimed to be perfect.

"Rubbish," Sherlock declared, sounding wide awake, the bastard. "You don't work Mondays."

"I do today. One of the regular staffers is getting married." John yawned and angled his head around to get a glimpse of the bedside clock. "Bloody hell, it's almost eight already. Come on, Sherlock, shove over or I'll be late."

"I don't care," Sherlock muttered, but he slid off John and collapsed into a pile of limbs on the bed, emanating discontent. "What time do you finish?"

"About four, I think." John rolled to his feet and leaned back down to plant a kiss on Sherlock's nose. "Don't make that face. The wind might change and you'll be stuck with it. I'm going for a shower."

"Want company?" Sherlock's grin was pure evil.

"No. Stay." John pointed at him and backed away through the door. "Bloody menace."

"You're no fun!" Sherlock called after him.

John kept his own grin to himself until he was safely behind the bathroom door.

When he went downstairs, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa in his pyjamas with John's laptop balanced on his knees. John had a moment of panic, then remembered he'd very thoroughly deleted any incriminating internet history, and the relevant arrangements had been made by phone. Sherlock saw his involuntary twitch and smirked at him, bringing up the sickly-pink website John had been looking at previously.

"Hidden message cuff links, John? Cute, but no thank you." He sniffed. "Besides, French cuff shirts are Mycroft's preference."

"I was thinking about the key ring, actually," John said mildly. "Thought you'd get a kick out of it."

Sherlock waved a hand. "For a while, maybe," he said. "I find our current method of expressing our feelings rather more satisfactory."

"Strangely enough, so do I."

John collected his keys, wallet and phone from various areas around the sitting-room (Sherlock had a bad habit of picking things up and putting them down in random places), made himself some toast and went over to the sofa.

"Are you planning on getting dressed at any point today?" he asked, bracing one arm on the back of the sofa and leaning down. Sherlock shrugged.

"Dimmock wants me at the Yard later this morning to go over some files. I expect it'll be dull, but one never knows."

"One never does," John agreed. He kissed Sherlock once, then again, and then tore himself away with a little groan. "All right. I'll see you later. Don't piss anyone off today."

Sherlock's voice floated down the stairs behind him.

"No fun _at all_!"

 

* * *

John did in fact have a shift that morning, but it ended at midday. He also already knew about Sherlock's appointment at the Yard, because he'd called Dimmock two days ago and asked for a favour. He needed Sherlock out of the flat for at least a couple of hours in the afternoon.

He was going to start a new Valentine's Day tradition.

 

* * *

A text from Dimmock alerted John that Sherlock had left the Yard. It was almost three; there must have been an interesting case in the batch of files they'd looked at. John had been expecting Sherlock's return for almost half an hour.

Fifteen minutes later he heard the front door open and close, and Sherlock's light tread taking the stairs two at a time. There was a pause when he reached the sitting-room door; John's heart started beating faster, and he strained to hear any hint of sound from below.

  


Sherlock's footsteps slowed as he entered the sitting-room. John pictured the assessing look on his face as he surveyed the room, noticing what was different. He didn't call out for John, which was exactly what John expected. That would ruin the whole plan, after all, and Sherlock was certainly quick enough to have figured out what John was doing by now.

Ah. An echo of Sherlock's hard-soled shoes on the kitchen floor, indicating he'd found the second one. More silence, and stillness for longer than John expected. He didn't know if that was good or not.

  


Eventually Sherlock started moving again, going through the kitchen side door toward the stairs. John wiped his damp palms on the quilt and took a deep breath. Worst-case scenario, Sherlock would laugh at him. He could live with that. Best-case … well, he'd wait and see.

John's bedroom door was pulled mostly closed, but not latched. He could hear Sherlock on the other side, clothing rustling, light breathing as he paused to read. The elderly hinges sounded ominous as they squeaked, Sherlock's long fingers appearing around the edge as he pushed it open.

  


His other hand held three postcards, fanned out like playing cards. A fourth lay balanced on John's chest, rising and falling unevenly with his breathing. Sherlock sidled into the room, edging around the bed but not approaching.

"You've been busy," Sherlock said, noncommittal. "Full marks for ingenuity."

"Thank you." John's fingers were laced together over his stomach. He tried not to clench them too obviously. "I hope it wasn't a waste of time."

Sherlock cut him a sidelong glance, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he murmured. His clever hands flicked through the cards again, one by one. "These are very … illuminating."

"Only one more to complete the set," John offered, as casually as he could. He felt as horribly exposed as a person could while still being fully clothed.

Sherlock took a step forward then, as if he'd been waiting for the invitation. John stayed perfectly still as Sherlock leaned over and plucked the last card from his chest, pale eyes riveted to the cardboard for several long minutes. John concentrated on breathing as normally as possible and not losing his mind as the silence dragged on and Sherlock appeared to have turned to stone.

  


"All right?" John said at last, when he couldn't stand it any longer. "Sherlock? Say something, would you?"

Sherlock gave a strange little shudder and added the card to the others in his grip. He met John's eyes directly for the first time, and John's breath deserted him altogether when for once, he saw exactly what Sherlock was thinking.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was deep, and verging on hoarse. "All right, John."

Neither of them said much of anything after that—at least, not in actual words.

And happily, nobody puked.

**Author's Note:**

> The website with the 'hidden message' cuff links and key ring is [here](http://www.romancestuck.com/holidays/valentines-men-gift-guide.htm). They have 'hidden message' collar stays, too.
> 
> The Anti-Valentine cards are the work of [Meg Pickard](http://www.meish.org/vd/), along with many other brilliant designs (including the title and subtitle of this fic).


End file.
